Work Text:
Adam sat at his father’s desk, as the afternoon rain bathed the study in a blue haze. He heard the pitter-patter of rain on the balcony, hitting the stone like dull piano notes.
The summer of 1779 had been cloudy and wet. Adam received word that Spain had just entered the war. He would have joined his men against the British, he would have sailed to America if it had come to it – somewhere far from this forest, far from the whispers on the breeze.
Belle did not think it wise, not that it was even possible. The ink had yet to dry on the new Treaty of Alliance between France and the young country. It had only been February, and the year had not yet reached September. There was no telling what would come from this war, what would come from his country’s entanglement with the New World. He was surprised no one had come for him yet.
With the oak and sycamore in this forest, he would remain still, unchanged, until death found them. No war would come for Adam. There was no salvation from his curse.
He was reminded of this, when he would pen letters to some of his men who resided in Villeneuve, holding his white quill pen with claws; when he would walk past a wall overlaid with silver or gold, and catch a glimpse of his reflection; when he would lay beside Belle in their bed, pull her close, and she would reach for his horns, her gentle touch shattering his illusion.
The rain beat harder on the balcony, fast and quick like a clock running out of time. His father’s study became Adam’s. The walls were painted with a new green paint; emerald essence born of arsenic and copper. The red mahogany bookshelves contrasted against the green walls, piles of dusty papers and old books unopened since the time of his father’s death.
It had been years since the curse was broken – if only in part. His servants were free, and his people remembered who he was. What work was there to do, if only to satisfy Belle’s insistence on a return to some normalcy?
People in town whispered of the war, and of Adam’s involvement – or rather, his lack thereof. He came to the understanding the forest still held onto Villeneuve and the castle, keeping them hidden from the rest of France. Travelers had come and gone, passed through the town like ghosts. Nobody ever returned, and he wondered if everyone had forgotten Villeneuve.
The forest grew brave in summer. Ivy would climb the castle, thick bushes would appear overnight and cover the lawn. Adam’s most skilled gardeners could not tend to the grounds fast enough.
He never cared to stay outside for long, especially in the summer. The forest took his body and wouldn’t let him leave. Now it taunted him with overgrown bushes and strange whispers on the wind. If he were free, would he run far away from here? Would he take a hastily packed bag and disappear into the night? Would he flee to Paris, or to Italy? Would he sail across the ocean to fight for the New World?
Or, would he stay? In the same castle he died a thousand times in, and was reborn? Would he stay by his lady’s side, remain in their bed, continue to walk down these still halls?
Was he chasing something he never could find?
Adam kept up his attendance, would come to dinner and greet the servants, he came into town at Belle’s imploring. His tailors fitted him in reds and garnets, in blues deep as the sea.
Belle wouldn’t wear green. Her gowns were the color of sunset and rain, of a summer meadow and bright dawn. She would say that yellows and blues and reds suited her hair, her eyes.
Soon enough, after too many years, it all looked wrong for Adam. Belle was content to be confined to this half-life. He was not. The forest’s grip was still deeply lodged in their lives, and no gardener or tailor could hide that.
The rain stopped. Sunlight peaked through the clouds. Adam looked down at his empty desk, and at the green walls around him. Sunlit dust hung in the air like a golden haze.
He stood hastily. The walls sickened him, too green, too cloying. He left the castle grounds. It was a Thursday in August, as the earth like a flame was brightest before dusk. There was a lightness in the air, something bright and something pleasant. It was the deepest he had gone into the woods in years. Adam sank his feet into the earth. His grip was better than it was before the curse, he dipped his toes into the ground. It was cool and begged to envelop him. He walked down an overgrown path, between the birch and oak, over the thick understory. His horns kept getting caught on the branches above. Soon the woods gave way to a lake.
Light shimmered on the surface of the water. Twinkling like the light was woven like fabric, still and ever rippling. Belle was there, by the water. Her white dress blew gently in the wind, and her hair cascaded down her back in waves.
In her hazel eyes, he saw specks of gold like sunlight upon the waters. Her brown hair was deep and rich like the trees around them.
He realized at once, she was entangled with the forest, not separate, and he could not hate the woods without forsaking her. He suddenly wanted to see her in a green dress, a vibrant emerald like the walls of his study. He was bound to her, and bound to the forest.
In the body he was cursed in, he found her. She loved him as any other man, more than she had ever loved another before. Belle went into the meadow and picked flowers and grass. She curled them around his horns, flowers on his crown. Adam could never tire from the view. Never tire from her touch, her warmth, and her voice.
The forest had taken his body, and given him Belle in return.